


Nothing Ahead

by cereal_whore



Category: The Long Walk - Richard Bachman
Genre: And clearly all of you guys were succumbing to insanity just for your psa, I feel oddly bad for gary barkovich ya know, Oh, Other, ahhasdfjdsl; shit like as you read the book the sense of trepidation gets to you, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, because you're like. how is this gonna turn out since only one of you can live?, fuck why man, yall this book is so sad. it doesn't even have a bittersweet ending since everyone else is DEAD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal_whore/pseuds/cereal_whore
Summary: It was just a line.That was what he sacrificed for.Craziest part is- he'd probably do it again, if the others were as well.And he'd cross the line again, to chase the rabbit.





	Nothing Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> That book left me with a lot of feelings okay.

He doesn't even know what his original goal was.

To Ray Garraty, whatever his original intent was, he no longer can recall, no longer can care- it's discarded with whatever he bothered to cling onto before the shitstorm hit his life.

This is all that mattered.

The line.

The line that fades into his memories and present vision with uncertainty- it's distinct, plain, and vividly white as it loosely sways in the dry Maine wind. Running, he yanks through the line, but it doesn't satisfy the insatiable hunger for something.

He recalls McVries' constant insistence that they all wanted to die.

And as he gazes shiftily at the dark figure looming in the distance, trying to find a distinct feature other than its pitch blackness to associate one of his friends with, for a fleeting second, he wonders if it's true. That this is the explanation for why there's a gnawing suction in his stomach that's even more merciless than the hunger he was staving off (that also became disregarded as well- it mattered as much as his numbed pity and hatred for Barkovich did)- because he still hasn't reached that one thing that everyone who joined had understood.

That they all wanted to die.

And that's why they all subconsciously adapted themselves fit for this challenge.

So he runs, even as his leg tendons shred against the sharpened edge of overuse and malnutrition. 

Because that mattered less than the sudden value he recognized the line had.

Because he needs to cross the line to get to the other side.

_The other side. The line that every 99 other runner stepped over except for me._

Grinding his teeth into paste, he staggers and stumbles and trips, yet continues after the figure, whatever shouting in the background becoming white noise and as useless as his understanding of anything else except for _the line_. 

Yet the black figure, mocking and like a blurry smudge of one's greasy fingerprint, is still the constant distance away from him. He can't seem to close the gap between them no matter how hard he forces himself to run on whatever exhaust he respires. He can't cross the line. 

_Fucker._

He should've won.

He lasted past everyone else. 

But he didn't. He really didn't win. He has to keep walking. 

And he supposes that's why he's the dog chasing after the mechanical rabbit that lacks any human flaws to slow down, to let him, a simple mortal, reach up. Everyone else figured it out, everyone else who died (and he  _crossed the line_ ) were able to let death pick up on them because they gave up. They  _knew_ what they wanted, even if they were unwilling, even if they still fought, death mercilessly steamrolled over them and let them die a pitiful yet debatably kind death.

Because he didn't, because he was finally the one to cross the line, he's left with the fact that he's the last one standing with no one else, while everyone else didn't have to face such a reality. Everyone else were and can be the only ones, the only ones who would  _ever_ comprehend his situation, who would ever truly connect with him (even damn Olson, who he promised he would never be like) who he could truly be lax with and spew out his promises faster than the vomit that left Abraham at the unsightly remainders of Olson.

Everyone else are fools. Damn fools. They never crossed any fucking line. They don't get to even act like they deserve to cheer him for doing it when they don't understand what he took to get there. And since he's the last one, he's the last one to left fucking chasing after the line, the _real_ line (not whatever plasticy shit he snapped), the line that everyone truly crossed except for him. (Because didn't McVrie comprehend since the beginning, and allowed it to reach him rather than have himself chase after it pitifully like he is right now? Didn't Stebbin warn you that they're all deadmeat? That they're all a part of the system that there's no winner?)

Because it's just a line.

It means nothing.

What everyone else gained, was much greater.

_"You'd never catch up to me."_

He falters. Sebbin's flippant, almost mocking timbre echoes through his head as loudly as his footsteps muffled by his sopping socks do. 

 _"YOU'VE DONE IT WRONG!"_ Olson's shriek cracks louder than the thunderstorms that they'd all envision when trudging underneath the ominous charcoal clouds. 

 _I did do it wrong._ The way that Scramm and Mike went, on their own morals and almost tranquil comprehension and acceptance that's equilibrium with defiance, was the right way. The right way.  _What about my wife, Ray?_

 _"Fuck the Maine weather. You can get there."_  

 _"Lie down with me. On the grass."_   _Jesus, Pearson, I really do want to. Just let me cross the line first._ Let me cross the line.

_"I can finish the book with us at the very least-"_

_"Don't cross the line. You can make it. My time was just up- I couldn't continue. Just....just get the lead casket for me."_   _Shut up._

_"I love you."_

He does love Jan.

He really does. 

But he loves death even more.

It's as if that realization, that shameful admittance that scorches his throat as he spits it out dryly in a croak, was a switch for his body's fight. He doesn't care about the line anymore, as well.

And as his mind slowly succumbs to the ebony splotches gorging on the edges of his vision, his legs buckle and succumbs to the fatigue, the torn tendons, the blistering feet, and the lack of will.

Blearily, through the haze of pain and something warm and glossy, he stupidly notes how the blackness shrouding his vision isn't from his eyelids since they're open as he feels the veins cracking through his eyeballs hold back the bulging contents. But, with a sense of understanding, he knows it's the same color as the figure he was attempting to chase. 

_Stebbin? Rabbit? Did i catch up?_

He wonders if he crossed the line yet.

He did.

 

But he doesn't see anyone else.

The panic, sluggish like molasses (like the splotch of glue similar to Freaky D'Allessio's splattered head) seeps through the heavy coating of numbness and anesthesia, and the slow sense of unbearable sadness, going at its almost unnoticeable, irritatingly slow pace of comprehension through him, would've drawn heaving sobs out of him if he hasn't given up. They're not there. He crossed the line just like everyone else, but nobody else is there. He's alone as he was seconds ago. 

 

 

Even when he crossed the line, it's just a line.

 

It's just like before.

He went through everything.

But there's still nothing ahead of it. 


End file.
